


Point of Origin

by shazamitylam



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Spoilers for Ch. 11 and 13, Spoilers for Episode Prompto teaser, prompto-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 04:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shazamitylam/pseuds/shazamitylam
Summary: There are five moments that Prompto remembers clearly before getting captured by Ardyn.





	Point of Origin

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably tag this as AU when episode prompto gets released

**I.**

He’d gotten used to not being lonely, he thinks. It’s the years of companionship built on laughter and fights and a little more trust every day.

Which only makes this worse. Prompto imagines that the snow is colder without the heat of his friends’ bodies trudging alongside him, that the wind is harsher, more cutting.

 _Ignis. Gladio. N..Noctis. Ignis. Gladio. Noctis._ Step by step he wanders through an expanse of nothing, pushing back growing dread and unrelenting memories of... _that._

Yelling. Falling.

He trips on his own feet. The fall, while cushioned by the snow, is no less painful.

He shakes himself off, clenching his teeth. He has to survive first. Then he can… deal with the rest.

Prompto lets out a shuddering breath. Priorities? Sleeves. A hat. Someplace warm.

In some corner of his mind that isn’t occupied by _cold shivering cold_ , he notes that he misses his friends.

He wonders if they miss him.

* * *

 

**II.**

He’s found a hat. Prompto is pleased to discover that it fits snugly over his head, even though his _carefully styled hair_ will probably be a mess later. Worrying at his bottom lip, he puts on a thick jacket- as fluffy as a chocobo on the inside- and hopes that the owner won’t mind.

Prompto glances around the rustic cabin and sighs. As much as he’d like to rest, he has to go… somewhere. Maybe catch up with the train?

And the cold… the cold is distracting. He steps out again and makes haste.

* * *

 

**III.**

_Niflheim. Maybe it’s where you belong._

Prompto tells his brain to shut up and quickens his steps. He’s been having a vague feeling that he’s being chased, whether by a physical presence or by his own memories.

He coughs lightly and pulls his jacket tighter around himself. Once again, he wishes that he was back on the train, back on the Regalia. Anywhere but here.

Prompto huffs out a breath. Better him than Gladio or, gods forbid, _Ignis_.

 _Not that Noct would push_ **_them_ ** _off._

He stiffens to a stop. Noctis wouldn’t have pushed him either.

_But he did._

Prompto gasps in a breath, and the biting air chills his lungs. He remembers the anger, the threats. There’s an ache in his body beyond the burning cold.

_He must have been mad for a reason._

Some small part of him nudges at him to keep moving, to stop being dumb.

Instead he stands still, his shaking hands rising to muffle his heaving breaths. He bites down on his lips and wills his body to stop trembling, almost welcoming the numbness that begins to spread from his hands to his chest.

“What did I do?” he chokes out.

* * *

 

**IV.**

The MT seems kind of startled to see him, which is strange because people have always written them off as emotionless killing machines.

His right wrist feels heavy, but Prompto raises his gun to quickly take down the MT; there’s no time to waste. The shots to the chest and the head knock it back and crack the helmet.

Then he sees its face.

A freckled face, bruised where the bullet hit and crumpled the mask. Soft, blond, _carefully styled hair_.

 _“My hair does NOT look like a chocobo’s butt!”_ he hears echoed in his head.

Prompto can guess what color the eyes are.

A part of him wants to wake up the MT, to hear his voice. He _wants_ the comparison, despite knowing it would worsen the suffocating weight in his chest.

Prompto raises his gun again, hand trembling. It’s too dangerous; it would just leap up and try to kill him again. Besides, wouldn’t it be merciful? This… this _thing_ is a fake and in pain. Prompto could end it right now.

_Who’s to say **you’re** not the fake? _

He steadies the gun. A tear trails down his face. He shoots.

* * *

 

**V.**

His legs carry him away from the fallen MT, his heart heavier than the rest of his body. A phantom pain throbs at his barcode.

“That could have been you, you know. Maybe it _was_ you.”

His throat is dry, but he wants to scream at Ardyn. “You sent him after me,” Prompto mutters instead. “You made him look like that. You…”

“Do you think you’re special? Unique?” Ardyn appears at his side, a false smile lifting his lips. “You know what you are.”

Prompto takes aim at him, but he’s too slow. His world falls dark.


End file.
